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John had always hated churches. They reminded him of funerals.
His lungs burned as he slipped through a small side door into Durham Cathedral. As he ran through the hallowed halls, his mind continued to reel at the memory of Rattigan’s corpse stretched out on the bed, a bullet hole through the middle of his forehead.
He turned a corner, and then another, not exactly sure what he was looking for, not exactly sure what he would find. All he knew was that George was in here somewhere. That George was in trouble. The inspector had been set up again, but it wasn’t just his career they were after this time. It was his life.
Voices. John forced himself to slow down. To listen.
And then he followed. If only he still had that gun with him. If only George hadn’t taken it…
Stepping out into the nave, he was met with an awful sight. George, lying wounded on the ground. Donald McGhee, standing over him, brandishing a shotgun in one hand and a pistol in the other. John quickly assessed the situation, noticed the gun lying on the ground a short distance away from the two men.
“McGhee,” John called softly, drawing the man's attention to himself, distracting the predator from his prey. He took a cautious step closer, deliberately keeping his arms—and hands—out where McGhee could see them.
McGhee said nothing. Keeping the pistol trained on George, he silently lifted the shotgun, aiming the barrel at John’s chest.
Instinctively, John raised both hands above his head, palms forward. He chanced a couple of extra steps forward, furtively closing the gap between himself and the gun on the ground. Keeping his voice soft and unthreatening, he said, “I’m unarmed.”
McGhee scoffed. “Well, you’re a mug in that case, son.”
John’s mind was a flurry of conflicting thoughts. Self-preservation battled against an unerring loyalty to the inspector. George was wounded, but not incapacitated. McGhee was armed, but it was a case of two against one. His attention was divided. John tried to ignore the barrel aimed at his chest. Glanced at the gun lying on the floor. It was so close. If he could just—
“Don’t do it, John,” George warned from where he lay on the ground.
He would only have a few seconds, but if he was quick… If McGhee missed the shot… If George distracted him, or had a weapon of his own…
As though reading his thoughts, George surreptitiously reached behind his back.
It was now or never.
John dove for the gun on the floor. Whether he’d be the one to shoot, or simply act as a diversion, it didn’t matter anymore. Wrapping his fingers around the handle, he’d barely had time to pull himself up when a loud crack resounded through the cathedral. Something smacked into his abdomen, like a baseball bat to the side, knocking the breath from his lungs and sending him crashing to the ground.
A moment later, a searing pain tore through his side. Burning. Freezing. Aching.
Four more shots rang out, bullet casings clinking as they hit the ground.
John watched as the bullets pierced McGhee's torso; as the man fell backwards, dead; as the gun slipped from George’s triumphant fingers.
John had come to save George. How ironic it seemed that in the end, George had been the one to save John. Except…
He hadn’t. Had he?
The fog of adrenaline—of shock—slowly lifted, allowing John’s mind to catch up with the reality of what had happened. A tremor ran along the length of his body, sending a fresh spasm of pain throbbing through his abdomen. His breath came out in sharp, painful gasps. His cheek burned against the cold tiles.
George hadn’t saved him.
John tried to lift his head, but couldn’t. He couldn’t move at all. He let his eyes close, let darkness engulf him. His world was crumbling. Imploding in on itself. Pain was the only thing that existed, now. The only thing that mattered. It spread out through his abdomen, to his chest, to his limbs. White hot, angry, consuming. Driving out all other thought. Soon, it would overwhelm him completely, and then… and then…
He'd always hated churches.
He was only vaguely aware of a shuffling noise. A low, pained grunting. Forcing his eyes open, he saw that George had pulled himself closer. Pain quickly coupled with fear. Fear of what was happening. Fear of what could happen. Fear that he might die with his closest friend believing the worst about him.
His vision blurred with tears. The ground seemed to tremble beneath his sprawled out body. Every breath was a laborious effort. He stared at George, wordlessly imploring the inspector to save him. Begging for him to take the pain away. To turn back time. To give him a second chance.
But of course, that was impossible.
John fought against the pain. “I was…” His voice failed him. He didn’t have the energy to go on, but he knew he had to. He had no choice. No time. If he was to… If this was the end, he had to make sure George knew. Had to make sure he understood. He took a shaking breath and forced the rest of the words out. “… always on your side.”
“I know,” George said softly. He tilted his head back, locking eyes with John. “I’m sorry. I left you unarmed.”
John could only stare at him, the words providing little comfort. What use were words now? What good were apologies? He tried to focus on George's face, on the coolness of the tiles beneath him, on the sound of his own ragged breathing. Anything to distract him from the pain, from his own mortality, from the terrifying thought of a world without John Bacchus in it.
This couldn’t be it, could it? This couldn’t be how it all ended, bleeding out on the floor of a cathedral. It couldn't end this way. It just couldn't. It couldn’t... could it?